


Not What Either Of Us Expected

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Kink, M/M, Possessive., Rough Sex, Spanking, slightly dubcon? (not very dubcon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Porny plot-what-plot, BDSD DOM/sub tropes, Mycroft sub, Greg's POV.Early, before the show, Mycroft kidnaps Greg for the "you're involved with my brother" talk.It does not turn out as anyone intended.Graphic. Explicit. Rough.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 13
Kudos: 156





	Not What Either Of Us Expected

He met the man for the first time about six months after he started letting Sherlock “consult” a bit. It wasn’t precisely a surprise. The boy was a red flag suggesting vast powers were backing him up, somehow. People like Sherlock didn’t survive without vast powers bludgeoning Karma into submission in back alleys, before Karma could ever land a hand on the hapless prat. So Greg had been expecting word from someone to eventually reach him.

He hadn’t expected a gun in the small of his back, a beautiful, slinky feline of a Bond girl blindfolding him and leading him to a car that smelled of money and travelled soundlessly through London’s streets. He had not expected to be led through a building that sound and scent told him was history and marble combined, or down into a basement, or sat on a stool and left.

He was not, however, surprised when a hand gave a magician’s tug, removing the blindfold in one go, tied with a magician’s knot.

The room was dim. The man was about six foot-ish. More, he thought—six-two? Six-four? He was fit, but not overly fit. A bit soft in the belly, with a short chin and rounded cheeks. Dressed to kill, Whitehall style. No, he corrected himself. Not Whitehall. Most on Whitehall dressed in suits slightly less formal, distinctly less traditional, suits that suggested the good sense to belong to the common era. This one was wearing whatever a P.G. Wodehouse character from the Drones Club would wear: a man with blood and duties, and oddly limited ambition. Someone who worked for Queen and Country because to do less would be rather embarrassing: letting down the team. Someone who would never run for office, but who would accept many appointments, perform them superbly, and move on. He posed, a portrait of authority.

Portrait, Greg’s inner self murmured. Image, not the real item.

He wondered what that meant. He waited, his eyes meeting his captor’s.

“You are Detective Gregory Lestrade, of the MET.” No question was asked, but there was a clear expectation that Greg would confirm the identification.

Greg shrugged one shoulder. “Aye.”

“Your record is impressive.”

“Is what it is.”

“You’ve advanced far in your profession.”

“Earned it all.”

“All? Even now, when you’re clearly stealing credit for the labor of one Sherlock Holmes? Do your superiors know what you’re up to?”

Greg shrugged again. This man was…unusual. Interesting. Intense, but at odds with his own performance. The movements, the stance, the words, the intonation: that was all killer.

He probably could kill. Most people could. But—he didn’t have that drop, like the depths of infinity falling into ice and emptiness, that suggested a complete lack of conscience. Nor did he have that sickening, squirming fire that assured the observant that, worse than indifference to torture and death, he quite enjoyed inflicting them.

Greg decided to take a risk. It was time. He uncoiled himself from the chair, rising in a smooth, threatening burst.

The man met his eyes, observant but not intimidated, considering. “You aren’t afraid?”

“Government men like you don’t kill people like me. Not when you have access to my records.”

A flick of laughter lit in the stranger’s eyes. “Well, well. Maybe you are a real detective. Nicely inferred.”

Greg gave a small nod of acknowledgement, no more. “Those who need to know about my work with Mr. Holmes have been informed. It is possible—likely—that word has been passed through channels, but I couldn’t comment on that. Authorities have been informed. Meanwhile, Mr. Holmes, the MET, the needs of London, and my fondness for closed cases are all satisfied. No more. No less.”

The stranger rallied. This time Greg could spot the faint, faint trace of effort he exerted, as he expanded the aura of authority. “And it will remain that way.”

Huh, Greg thought. He’s…vulnerable.

He was vulnerable. The straight spine, the high-raised chin, the cool eyes, all fell apart when you looked hard. He was Bertie Wooster of the Drones, lacking a Jeeves and faking the deadly manner of some associate from some more senior, more sober club, attended by some more deadly man. God, Country, Queen…he fought to serve. But there was someone behind that painted façade that was something else entirely.

Greg gave a small, shadowed smile. He was a detective because he quite liked mysteries. Manners that failed to match their inner man. Power wielded by shy boys. He enjoyed some of the games and tests that went with solving those mysteries…

He reached up and stroked the other man’s tie, letting just one finger trace delicately down the navy blue silk spangled with tiny white stars, ignoring the reflexive attempt to step back which was caught and rejected by his host. “I suspect it will remain that way,” he murmured. “For now. Until something changes. Are you planning to change anything?” His mind was putting together details, now, running in rare brilliance in the night forest of the Hunt. “But, then—nothing will change. Not if you have anything to do with it. You’re just putting the last details in place, and letting me know that this is…approved. Somewhere above me.” He felt the heat just beneath his fingertips, a warm living body. A heart thumping beneath his fingertip. He carried the caress down to the overlapping join of weskit and jacket lapels—and slid his hand between the lapels until he could cup the other man’s waist in his palm.

It was instinct, he knew. Not logic. Not “observation.” But he knew it was the right choice to use on this one.

The other man tried to lean out of the contact with the supple blandness of a cat who won’t accept a caress. He failed. Greg’s hand followed along like a skilled dancer—leading the stranger into the first step of a dance.

The stranger made himself stop. He looked coldly at Greg. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Greg considered. “You’re keeping track of Sherlock Holmes,” he said, letting his fingers explore the side seam of the other man’s weskit, where brocade met ultrafine wool and crisp cotton underlining, and still more silk, fine enough to drop delicately over the blade of a samurai sword and fall into two pieces with the weight of gravity alone.

“He’s a man of interest to—certain people.”

“Nice to know, but hardly a surprise. He’s the sort of loon who’d be long since dead and buried if there weren’t people who preferred he remain alive.” He studied the man’s face—and thought. Hard.

This was not what the stranger had planned. That business was already done with…had been done from the moment he and Greg had established simply that powerful figures kept watch over Sherlock Holmes. The entire encounter had been designed to convey that message convincingly. What was happening now, though…

That was outside the plans. Far, far outside the plans…and the man whose body he touched didn’t know what to do about it.

Didn’t know what he wanted to do about it.

No. Greg studied him more deeply.

Bertie of the Drones would smile hesitantly at Greg, should he amble into one of Bertie’s favored haunts. Bertie might…might…warily, shyly, invite the new fella to share a bottle of fine sherry, or a hand of cards, or go out to a nightclub. And he’d lower his lashes—just a bit. And suggest that if the night ran late, he had a bit of a flat in Mayfair.

And if new fella Greg rested a hand in the small of Bertie’s back to guide him out the door and into the wild night, Bertie, shy boy, would light up and hide his smile and wonder what possibilities this new man offered.

For no reason he fully understood, he knew with a click who “Bertie” was. “You’re the brother.”

There was a full-body twitch, like a disciplined horse unable to fully contain a start over a fluttering newspaper in the wind. “Excuse me?”

“Moncrief? Montagne? Marriot?”

The other man waited…waited…then sagged. “Mycroft. I assume Sherlock has mentioned me?”

“Blasphemed you to the heavens. Mouthy, that boy.”

Everything was changing. Mycroft’s laugh traveled through Greg’s fingers. “Quite.”

“Rest easy. I won’t abuse the lad.”

Mycroft looked away. “Thank you.”

Greg suspected he thanked few, and fewer still with such sincerity.

He considered, observing, theorizing, testing with tiny motions. His fingers flicked over Mycroft’s waist. He stepped slightly further into Mycroft’s personal space, watching the other man blush, duck his head, step back…but fail to make any serious attempt to escape.

He considered talking it out. But something insisted otherwise. “Bertie” would not like being forced to admit what he wanted…not if he could be forced to submit, instead.

Greg gripped the fabric of the weskit tight, and stepped directly into Mycroft, stroking the side of his head against the curve of Mycroft’s jaw, pressing his nose in to nuzzle his neck. “You’re much more interesting than your baby brother,” he growled, softly, a black cat hunting. He nipped, and felt Mycroft shudder. “Let’s play, kitty cat.”

He slid his hands together at the base of Mycroft’s neck, where he began to untie the other man’s tie.

“No.” Mycroft fought his way back to authority and reserve, hands gripping Greg’s attempting to pull them from the knotted silk. “This is entirely inappropriate.”

“Yes.” Greg paused just long enough to grip Mycroft’s lapels and shake, hard and quick, rattling the taller man’s bones. “You can behave while we do this. Or you can fight. Or you can try to convince me you’re interested but far too invested to give in. You’ll fail.”

“Fail? I hardly think so.” Mycroft tried to step away, but one of Greg’s hands poured in a liquid line down his body, tracing over his flies, outlining Mycroft’s erection with clever fingers.

“Mmmm?” Trace became a cupping palm that weighed Mycroft’s package. Greg’s other hand slid around, and down and curved seductively in the crease beneath Mycroft’s bum cheek. “If you struggle nicely, I’ll spank,” he whispered. “Hard. I’ll spank you nice and hard.”

He could feel Mycroft’s body react—the twitch of his cock in the cup of his palm, the shudder that traveled his entire body.

His instinct had been right, then. The invisible scent he’d been following proved true. He’d found his prey.

“Now,” Greg said. “We can do this here, in this prim little office, with the nice leather wing chairs and the worn desk. I can paddle you with the ruler I am quite sure you’ve got in your desk drawer. You can kneel on the carpet and show what a good boy you are by worshipping my cock with your lips and your tongue and your throat. Or we can do other things. But if you’d like to do it here, I think you should start off by letting me strip you.”

The shiver vibrated beneath Greg’s fingers. Mycroft’s head dropped…shy boy. Shy boy getting what he’s wanted, and ashamed of himself for wanting it. For collapsing in the face of his own desire. “Yes,” he said…and he fell passive.

Greg took his time, turning the process into a tiny orgy in its own right. His fingers found Mycroft’s tiny nipples through the thin cotton of the other man’s shirt. He pinched…lightly. Harder. With a twist. With testing flicks. He worked it, making Mycroft squirm and whine.

“That’s good. You can ask me for things you want. You can respond to questions I ask. Otherwise—I like this. I like you, whimpering and submissive, without words.” He unbuttoned things, and stripped back Mycroft’s upper clothes, trapping him in his own sleeves. “Wait there.”

The desk was a treasure trove. Big bullnose paper clips with huge jaws. Little ones small as little girls’ hair grips. Strapping tape. All sorts of things, including the ruler he’d guessed at: a big ebony monster with brass edge and markings. He collected a few items, then came back.

Moments later Mycroft’s upper body was stark naked, his wrists lightly bound with strapping tape, two little bullnose clips pinching his nipples hard. He stood, subjecting himself to the shame, breath staggering in his throat as his former prisoner took him captive, body and soul. “Augh…augh…augh…” The sound begged to become a moan. Mycroft was aware of Greg studying him, and his cock wobbled and thrust against tight wool trousers as he surrendered to the role of object of desire.

“Well. Look at you.” Greg tugged lightly at one of the clips, and smiled as Mycroft whined. “Tell me, Moncrief—do you let just anyone roger you like this? Strip you down and feel you up and use you in ways that make you blush?”

Mycroft shook his head. He didn’t even correct Greg’s mis-naming. Tonight, for now, he was owned by this man…

Greg let his hands fall to Mycroft’s braces and belt and waistband and flies. He dawdled, slipping his fingers just barely inside the waistband. “I know you want a proper spanking. I think—over the desk, bum high, bum-hole winking at me with every smack. I know that much. Don’t I?”

“Augh…augh…yes…uh. Please. Please…”

“Before that, though…”

He gripped the main waistband button, and unbuttoned. The heavy strap of fabric sprang wide, confirming Greg’s guess: this man was firm from effort, fit with muscle—but still unable to master his body. There was a lush, plump layer over his pectorals. A soft, rounded layer over his stomach. A subtle, padded layer over his bum.

He turned the unbuttoning into a tease. “What a sexy kitty you are. Pretty thing.” He stroked the trousers down Mycroft’s legs. He paused, helping him out of heavy leather shoes, before removing the trousers, displaying long, slim, soft legs and dimpled knees. “What a pretty boy you are. Tell me, Monty, would you enjoy being my pretty girl one time, instead of my pretty boy?”

Mycroft’s breath picked up, the rasping “augh…augh…augh” more despairing. Greg took the other man’s elbows and encouraged him to kneel…He paused long enough to undo his own flies, and extract his cock, full and heavy, and most of all thick. He nudged his cock against Mycroft’s mouth. “What do you want to show me, Mike? Show me what kind of toy you want to be.”

Mycroft gave a small, kittenish whine, and then began to snuffle and ghost kisses along Greg’s shaft, slowly expanding the amount of inner mouth he offered up. His own hips writhed, desperate, his cock long and thin and frantic, seeking attention.

Greg never allowed him to contain his own thicker cock, though, until he gave an intentional twitch under Mycroft’s lips, and thrust powerfully into his soft, unprepared mouth, hard and deep and back, filling his mouth with his width and probing well back into his throat with modest length and immodest force. He moaned as Mycroft choked gloriously.

“I know you’ve got cameras,” he said. “You’re giving me the recording when I go. I’m going to watch you choke on me for hours before I go to sleep. Hours.” He pounded, hard, into Mycroft’s mouth, feeling the man sway against the thrusts, arms still taped behind his back, thighs trying to brace against the onslaught. He smiled, gripped his hands tight around Mycroft’s chest, pressing up the soft layer of skin below the clipped nipples, creating soft, full little mock breasts. He flicked fingers up to twist the clips, and chuckled as Mycroft wailed with the combination of full mouth and abused nipples and the aware sense of his breasts.

“Up,” Greg snapped. “Time for spanks. Bad boys who kidnap me get spanks.” He grabbed Mycroft’s hair just above his hairline, and tugged hard, knitting his fingers in. “Up.”

Mycroft stumbled up, hair tugged every which way as he staggered, following the painful grip on his hair. He was innocent youth entrapped, following the dazzling, seductive man who’d turned the tables on him, capturing him in every sense of the word.

Greg almost flung his boy over the desk, then took a few minutes to arrange him. Arms down his back. Chin up, throat and apple and chin pointing up the desk. Cock hard under the edge, straining to reach the drawer, to reach anything that gave friction--and failing. He took the ruler, set aside for this glorious moment. Then he cupped one buttock, while hefting the heavy ruler.

“What a delight you’re going to be,” he whispered. “May our superiors forever be interested in the survival of Sherlock Holmes." He squeezed, and squished, and rubbed a thumb pad over Mycroft’s arsehole. Humming to himself he located a small jar of mentholated moisturizer of a humble, homely brand. He found a fat, chunky pen that almost kept his attention—until it occurred to him that a man who kept that pen in easy to find drawers might keep something more explicitly naughtier in better hidden places.

Rather than ask Mycroft, he walked away, exploring for hidden doors and hidden drawers, out of sight where Mycroft could not see him. The fabric of his trousers griched as he walked.

He was, he realized, fully dressed but for the still full cock bouncing at hip height. Mycroft was bare, miles of white skin and pink blushes and freckled shoulders.

“I’m going to take your pants and vest away with me, when I go,” he said, conversationally, as he examined the contents of the first secret drawer he discovered. Booooring, as Sherlock would say. Mere governmental papers. He continued his search. “I’m going to take them and you’re not to put on the spares I am sure you have somewhere, or send your pretty Bond girl out to get new ones. You’re to work all day today lacking your underpinnings. I’ll think about it all day long. So will you. And you won’t touch yourself at all until the work day is over, and you’re home in whatever rooms you keep, and you go in your shower, and you play with yourself. Right?”

“What?” Mycroft sounded half drunk with his own desire.

“Tonight. When you shower. You’re going to play with yourself, Micky-kitty. Not just jerk off. Oh, no. You’re going to find a dildo or a vibrator like the one I’m looking for, and you’re going to shove it hard up your ass, and you’re going to kneel on the shower tiles, and you’re going to use yourself. Hard. Until you’ve come like a she-cat in heat, wailing.” He found a new drawer and smiled. “Ah, here it is. I knew it. I was sure you’d have one. Very nice.”

It was not a “nice” vibrator. It was a monster with a ridged base that would hold it firm wherever it was lodged. He moistened it, then thrust it into Mycroft. He slicked his own cock with the mentholated cream, enjoying the faint burn.

“I’m going to spank you now, bad boy. And then I’m going to fuck you till I’m done with you. And then I’m going to make you jack yourself off slow and embarrassing, telling me all the things you want me to do to you some other time. Do you understand?”

The wail was affirmation, desire, shame, despair, need.

“That’s a good boy, then,” Greg said. Standing by the desk, he brought the ruler down with a crack.

And again.

And again, Mycroft wailing the entire time, but hard as a rock.

“Beg for it,” Greg croaked.

“Fuck me,” Mycroft begged.

“Beg more.”

“Please, please, please, fuck me.”

“More. I like to hear you beg. Who am I?”

“My master.”

“Wrong. I’m your God. You worship me. You’ll break every rule to keep me in your sight. You will do anything to please me. If I wanted to do this with Sherlock watching, you’d invite him over-and have him kidnapped if necessary. Right?”

“Yes…God.”

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

Then...

His cock was already slick. When he was ready, he turned, placed himself behind Mycroft, jerked out the dildo and raped into his empty hole. Hard.

Mycroft wailed and squirmed. Greg slowed. “Do you want me to stop, boy?”

“No,” Mycroft managed to whisper. He was squirming under Greg’s weight.

Greg leaned more heavily, ramming in and out, hips firm and steady. “You’re mine from now on. Till you’re a hundred years old and die, begging me or my ghost to roger you out of life and into the light. Say it.”

“I’m yours. Forever.”

Greg caught fire, ignited by that final blaze that crossed him from arousal into need. Jolt, jolt, moans, gasps, spew everywhere. Then done.

He drew out. He considered the naked man on the desk. “Well. That wasn’t the evening I had planned.”

Mycroft, unmoving, said with amusement, “Me, neither.”

“Mmm. Sit up, brat. Sit up and jerk yourself off for me.”

He did, swiftly moving from the slight amusement upon completing the prior passage, to slowly shattered embarrassment and shame as Greg prodded him to say, explicitly, things he would like Greg to do with him another time.  
  
"No, kitten. You have to say it. Try again."  
  


"I want you to blindfold me and mask me. And take me out. And play with me in public."

"And...?"

Sobbing, Mycroft said, "And let other people touch me while you show me off." He grunted, then, come flooding over his hand.

“Nice,” Greg hissed, softly fingering his own limp cock.

He managed a few faint echoes of orgasm, then could do no more.

He collected Mycroft’s undervest and pants, leaving the rest of his suit behind. “No cheating,” he told the other man. “This is your walk of shame. I want everyone in the office to see you’re wearing the same suit a second day. Without unders, if possible. “

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft said, already climbing back into his clothing. He paused for a second “Tonight?”

“Tonight you’re going to do what I told you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy. I want you to leave me alone for a week or more. And when you do need me, I want you to call and ask me if you can send a car around so I can fuck you some more. Right?”

“Yes. I'll send a copy of my camera footage to your private account.”  
  
"No. Here-use this." He handed over a USB thumb from his pocket. "Leaves no track. I can destroy the original when I've got this somewhere really safe."

The next moments were quiet, as each man gathered himself for the conclusion.

At last Greg moved to go to the door. “Call your girl when I leave to take me home.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stepped out.

Moments later Bond Girl arrived, clacking down the marble corridor in stiletto heels.

She said nothing to suggest in any way that her boss had just been shagged helpless by this strange policeman.

He was sure she knew it anyway.

“He’s going to have me around again,” he said, calm and relaxed.

“When?”

“Your guess is probably better than mine. Not quite as soon as he possibly can, but almost. Just enough delay as to save face.”

“Mmm. Bets taken?”

“Not yet. Not till I know him better.

“Very well. Still, I would make your next Thursday free.”

He did—and did not regret it.

At all.


End file.
